


A Voltron Christmas Carol

by zombiegardener



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Because I'm not a monster, Christmas, Gen, Lance as the Ghost of Christmas Present, Parody, Pidge as the Ghost of Christmas Past, Ridiculousness, Sarcasm, Timeline?, What timeline?, a bit of klance because I can't help myself, but with rudolph, christmas has spread everywhere, featuring an actual ghost!, gratuitous planet naming, guest appearance as the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, kind of, so many out of control christmas references, zarkon sees the light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:35:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21782566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiegardener/pseuds/zombiegardener
Summary: Zarkon is planning a battle to crush the Voltron Force, but it's Christmas. Ghostly visitors throughout the night seek to change his mind. Will he see the light? Will Lotor recover his confiscated action figures? Will Shiro survive the story? What will become of the Voltron Force and their Alliance? Will I be haunted by the ghost of Charles Dickens?
Kudos: 5





	1. 'Twas the Night before Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a rewrite/reformatting of a story I wrote a couple of years ago based on the original Voltron series. I decided to rework it today because a- I'm sick and b- I just watched a Muppet Christmas Carol.
> 
> Footnotes are located in the end notes, because why not?

Christmas time had arrived. The entire universe was a joyous place of peace and love, or at least the parts of it that housed sentient life. Sure, the name changed from place to place, as did the imagery and mythology, but the idea of a holiday of peace involving presents and singing and- for some reason- flying reindeer and a sleigh had caught on even on worlds lacking quadruped mammals or a need for transport over snow (1).

The worlds conquered by the Galra Empire were no different. Truth be told, many of the Galra had picked up on the holiday, even if the singing and gift giving had to occur behind carefully locked doors, often in muffled whispers to ensure no Druids were lurking in the shadows. Regardless, the idea of fires and decorations and the easy availability of alcoholic beverages appealed even to the hearts of the most hardened warriors.

All of which brings us to the flagship of the Galra fleet, currently landed on a mostly dead planetoid known only as Doom (2). Festive strands of black horned skulls with twinkling red eyes adorned every available surface, from the lowly entrance to the slave quarters to the height of the bridge. Guttering torches- perfect for the roasting of chestnuts, assuming anyone had ever heard of chestnuts or was tall enough to reach the flames- cast smoky shadows everywhere throughout the dim interior, and the gnarled branches of black poplars crossed doorways for good luck. Some enterprising soul had even managed to import mistletoe at great expense. Several sprigs swung gaily over the tall archway into Haggar’s laboratory.

Zarkon shuddered and spun sharply back around to avoid crossing the landmined threshold to his witch’s domain. 

The Galran Emperor was not in high holiday spirits. Actually, that statement may well be one of the greatest understatements ever uttered. Zarkon _hated_ Christmas and everything it represented. After all, what good are peace, love, and goodwill to the ruler of the most oppressive empire in the universe if not- dare we think it- of all time? 

What reason was there for celebration? Was not his empire falling apart around his feet, all because of the utter incompetence of his underlings and the blasted goodness and light of a group of human children? Human. The scandal alone was enough to kill any forthcoming social engagements.

It was in this black mood that Zarkon finally made his way through the heavy steel doors of his throne room, his one place of solace. Here he was still the master of his domain; slaves still cowered before his mighty throne with none of their_ ‘defender of the universe’ _back talk. Defender of the Universe, indeed. Those whelps could barely keep their alliance intact, much less the rest of the galaxy. The whole universe? Not a chance. Regardless, here he could put the dark thoughts away from his mind and bask in the terror of his subjects. Here…

Zarkon froze two paces inside the door, his face going slack with shock under his helmet. With a growing surge of horror he surveyed the scene spread out in front of his disbelieving eyes. Several of the slave masters were chasing giggling serving wenches around the base of the throne, playfully cracking new whips. One of them looked suspiciously like a cat o’nine tails, and the guard in question was dangling handcuffs, no less. Shaking himself, Zarkon let his gaze travel up the stairs to his throne. One of his loyal commanders -_ ‘for now’_, his subconscious supplied darkly, visions of his mostly neglected personal torture chamber dancing in his head in place of the missing sugarplums - was resting halfway up the stairs, apparently reenacting one of his recent battle failures with a shiny new Voltron toy and what looked like a robeast carved out of a bar of soap. At the top of the stairs, Lotor, his one and only son, the heir to the throne of his Empire, was curled up on the cold stone dais doing unspeakable things with his new Lotor and Allura action figures.

Zarkon began to physically shake with rage. How dare they? How dare they bring those… those…THINGS into his sanctuary? With a growl building in his throat, Zarkon began to stalk towards his throne. The cold murder in his eyes stopped even the most drunken of the slave masters in their tracks. He came to a halt halfway up the steps and glared at his commander, too enraged to voice his displeasure in coherent words or even remember the soon-to–be-no-longer-among-the-living underling’s name (3). 

Finally noticing the shadow falling over his imaginary battlefield, the Galra snapped his head up and smiled ingratiatingly. “Oh, good afternoon, sire. I was just…” His voice cut off with a squeak of surprise as Zarkon grabbed the toy Voltron out of his hands and dashed it to bits on the rock. The Galra- whose name no longer mattered because he would have it stricken from the records at his first opportunity (4)- stared at the smashed wreckage of his favorite new toy for a moment before turning teary eyes up at his master. He was just about to protest this indignity when Zarkon grabbed the soap robeast and took a menacing step forward. The former commander took the hint and bolted.

The soap robeast exploded into tiny slippery bits from his massive fist as Zarkon turned to face his son at the foot of his throne. Lotor was regarding him with a confused expression. “Father? Is something wrong?”

Zarkon took a deep breath and contemplated exactly how long it would take to raise and nurture another heir. After a moment’s scrutiny, he decided he didn’t have the energy or the patience to go through all that nonsense a second time. Lotor would live. For now.

“What,” he growled, the low words barely managing to escape through his tightly clenched teeth, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh!” Lotor smiled brightly and held up his new action figures. “I’m practicing for my inevitable victory over my beloved. See?” He waved the action figures around before moving to force them together again. “I got them from Amazon. A drone delivered them almost instantly. They even came with the limited edition quintessence pack! Cool, huh?”

Zarkon grabbed his wrist in disgust. “You are an embarrassment. You will NOT play with children’s toys in front of the guards, do you understand me?”

Lotor nodded, looking slightly crestfallen.

“Good.” Zarkon grabbed the figures and tucked them away in a pocket. “You can have these back after we defeat Voltron and I have regained the lions. All of them. Is that understood?”

Lotor started to sulk. 

Zarkon threw himself down on his throne and turned towards one of the wall monitors. “Haggar? Where are you?”

The witch appeared in a puff of red and green smoke in front of him, a sprig of mistletoe clutched in one hopeful fist. “Yes, sire? Your wish is my command.” 

Zarcon stared. Did Haggar just bat her eyes at him? That was it. The last straw. This was ending. 

“I want an empire-wide communication opened immediately. Everyone is going to hear this pronouncement.”

Haggar nodded and concentrated for a moment. A black ball appeared between her outstretched hands, rapidly growing in size. “Listen, people of the Galra Empire, to the commands of Zarkon, your Emperor!” 

Zarkon nodded in approval. “Hear me, my subjects, for failure to hearken to my words will be met with dire and swift punishment. I have learned that the Voltron force is currently seeking shelter on planet Yule in the Noel system. Therefore, as of this moment, there will be no Christmas celebrations this year! Everything we have is to be used in an empire-wide attack on planet Yule and the wretched Voltron Force in the morning. Any decrease in productivity will be dealt with at the end of a lazon cannon. That is all.”

The ball faded from Haggar’s grasp as a shocked silence settled over the throne room. 

Lotor, still sulking over the loss of his action figures, was the first to recover. “But father, it’s Christmas.”

“Silence!” Zarkon roared, slamming his fist down on the edge of the throne. “This is ridiculous. Where did this holiday even come from? Why has it infested the universe? WHAT IS WRONG WITH EVERYONE?”

“Because it’s a time of love?” one of the guards answered uncertainly.

Zarkon’s glare darkened and he beckoned the man forward. The guard eeped and disappeared immediately from sight. Zarkon turned the glare on everyone remaining. “Well? What are you waiting for? I want every robeast, every ship, every lazon cannon ready to attack in the morning.” His anger exploded at the still blankly uncomprehending faces. “MOVE!”

His underlings moved. The throne room emptied out in a nanotick as everyone bolted for escape. Zarkon sank further down into his throne. “Christmas. Action figures and toys and love. Bah humbug! What is the universe coming to?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. But we’ll still call it Christmas for brevity.  
2\. See what I did there?  
3\. Or Soon to his friends.  
4\. Now Later to his friends.
> 
> Next time: A Ghostly Visitation! Oooohhhh!


	2. A Ghostly Visitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zarkon just wants to revel in his genius cancellation of Christmas before annihilating the unsuspecting Voltron Force. Unfortunately, the universe has other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, does anyone not know this story and even need a summary?

A half dozen assassination attempts, three botched missions by Lotor to retrieve the seized action figures, and one close brush with a mistletoe and candy cane toting Haggar later, Zarkon quit the throne room in disgust. Pulling his robes tightly around his thoroughly majestic frame, the Galran Emperor descended regally into his silent throne room, trying in vain to pretend that the lack of fawning courtiers was actually a nice change of pace. He slipped into the corridor with no fanfare, since even his personal guard had fled following the afternoon’s outburst.

Zarkon took in the newly emptied corridors with a smug smile. Every trace of the festive attempts at Yuletide cheer had been removed precisely as ordered. The gloom of the ship was back to its oppressive norm, the purple-tinted darkness broken only by the glow of distant flames from the bonfires on the planetoid’s surface projected onto comm screens to serve as a constant reminder that this Christmas foolishness was not going to be tolerated. 

The flickering red glow of the projected fires contrasted nicely with the dark metal walls, Zarkon decided with satisfaction. It wasn’t that he had issues with interior decorating per se- the correct placement of the skulls of vanquished foes and implements of torture could work wonders towards ensuring that underlings were kept in the right frame of mind- and the cold firelight burning the hopes of goodness of the masses made the evening positively cheery. He was whistling his favorite Galran battle song by the time he reached his quarters, located deep in the interior of his flagship.

Despite the total chaos currently reigning in the fleet, a considerate or at the very least extremely frightened slave had remembered to lay out a quiet dinner and bottle of wine in the sitting room. Dropping his helmet and cape on an empty rack, Zarkon sank gratefully into a plushy cushioned armchair. He was getting much too old for days like this. Things had been so easy in his empire’s infancy; all one had to do was land on a world with a nice display of explosions and the power of quintessence and the populace ran screaming towards the safety of the slave ships. Today everything was a battle.

His dinner gone, he relaxed, at least as much as he was capable of relaxing, and reflectively stared deeper into the comforting blood-red shade of his wine. He was just beginning to doze off into pleasant dreams that in no way, shape, or form involved dancing sugarplums when a faint noise pulled him back to the land of the living. Instantly alert, Zarkon held himself very still as his eyes darted around the circumference of the room. His favorite chair was backed directly against one wall- the better to nip those pesky assassination attempts in the bud- so nothing impeded his view. There had been something, something out of place…

There it was again! 

Zarkon’s hand edged towards the hilt of his sword as the faint noise filtered through the thick stone walls. Chains, that was it. Someone was clinking chains in the hallway. There was only one possible explanation: some slave had mustered the audacity to escape the slave quarters amidst all the turmoil and had gotten lost in the twisting corridors.

Zarkon leapt out of his chair with a snarl. As exciting as the end of Christmas and Voltron’s imminent destruction were, that was no excuse for laxity in the slave quarters. One of the masters- the one with the handcuffs and cat o’ nine tails most likely- was going to pay for this with his life. The door sprung open under his hand. He raised his sword in anger and…

And we all know what he found, don’t we? There was, of course, no runaway slave in the corridor outside his sitting room. There was not even a multitude of runaway slaves backed by the cursed Voltron Force, a sight that Zarkon would have greeted with more aplomb than the specter before him. No, it was, of course, just that. A specter. A ghost. It was…

“Sendak?” Zarkon gasped. Only years of skill kept the heavy blade from slipping through his suddenly numb fingers.

His former commander stood in front of him, his once proud frame stooped under the weight of coils and coils of heavy steel chains. Sendak slowly raised his head at the sound of his name, the red tech that replaced his right eye winking from his gray misty features. Zarkon continued to gape wordlessly, at a loss yet again. He didn’t think he could take too many more shocks like this today. Maybe Lotor had given up on poison and was opting instead to attempt to give his father a heart attack. Yeah, that sounded plausible. Sure it did.

Sendak shifted impatiently. “What? Aren’t you going to invite me in? It’s drafty out here.”

Zarkon slowly shook his head. This was definitely a joke of some kind. Someone’s idea of sick revenge for his cancellation of Christmas stroke of genius. That was definitely the explanation. Clutching his sword hilt with renewed resolve, Zarkon attempted to block the doorway.

Sendak sighed in exasperation and a cool breeze carrying a musty scent reminiscent of the deepest dungeons wafted across Zarkon’s face. Kind of pleasant, actually. He was just about to say so when Sendak shifted his chains and stepped into the room, directly through Zarkon’s solid unyielding body. For one endless moment the entire world consisted only of a soul-deep chill and the odd flash of disembodied pain from the coiled chains, trailing at least four feet beyond the ghostly figure. Regathering his wits, Zarkon narrowed his eyes and pulled the door shut on the now empty corridor.

“How do you know the corridor’s drafty? You’re dead. Aren’t you?”

Sendak looked at him from a spot dangerously close to the fire. Some of the flames appeared to be actually leaping through him. “Oh, I can’t feel it anymore than I can feel the warmth of this fire, but I can remember. Death is cold, Zarkon, endless cold. Are you ready to face it?”

Zarkon backed against the far wall, still brandishing his useless sword. “Is that what this is about? You’ve come to kill me?” He smiled coldly. “Better foes than you have tried. Some nearly succeeded, yet here I stand. I think you won’t find the task an easy one.”

Sendak smiled back. “I didn’t come to kill you. I came to warn you. As much fun as my life was, I’m paying forever for every mistake I made. If I could do things over…” His voice trailed off as a flame licked through one hand, temporarily lighting the misty gray form to a healthy purple. Sendak turned his hand with a wistful expression that faded into anger as the chains rattled with the sudden movement.

“To warn me?” Zarkon snorted and dropped the sword. “What, you decided to repent after Voltron kicked your sorry butt and hurried back here to convert me? You have got to be joking. Of all the overdone…”

Sendak swung to face him, the movement grotesque under the weight he carried. “You think this is a joke? Look at me. LOOK AT ME!” The chains rattled ominously as he spoke. “This is my hell, Zarkon. Each link of this chain represents a wrong I committed in life. I’m doomed to carry them with me for all eternity as a reminder of my evil ways. But you, Zarkon, oh you should see what they have planned for you!” He broke off with a cold laugh, his one good eye glinting evilly in the firelight.

“This is supposed to frighten me? I’ve heard better threats from Lotor!”

Sendak raised one finger and pointed directly at Zarkon’s heart. “Mock me if you will, but heed my warning. Your life has reached a crossroads from which all decisions about your future will be made. You’ve made plans this day that must be atoned for before the damage is done. Three ghosts will visit you this evening. Three ghosts before the clock tolls 6. Learn well their lessons, my lord, for the fate of your soul rests on the outcome of these visits.”

Zarkon shook his head in disgust. “Look, Sendak, if it’s about the chains, I can talk to Haggar. Maybe those dark spirits she serves can do something.”

Sendak suddenly sprung off the floor, flames licking from his good eye and mouth. A howl of rage tore from his throat as he sprang at Zarkon, the chains whipping through the air behind him. Zarkon reflexively dove into his bedchamber, slamming the door between them. As he leaned against the heavy wood, a single whisper filtered through to his ears. 

“Three ghosts. Heed their lessons well, lest you suffer a fate even worse than mine!”

His heart pounding in his chest, Zarkon forced himself to stand and bar the heavy door. He was not afraid. He was most certainly not afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, the first of the three ghosts makes an appearance. Will Zarkon be affected by his visions of Christmas Past? Stay tuned!


	3. Christmas Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zarkon is visited by the first of three (very frustrated and also familiar) ghosts. He's not very impressed.

Zarkon continued to lean against the heavy wood door for a time, his ears twitching as he strained to distinguish any sound over the gentle background hum of the ship. As his heart rate and breathing slowed to normal a terrible thing happened: Zarkon began to feel silly. Now, this might not seem so terrible to you or me, but to a ruler as proud as Zarkon this was a completely new experience. He had just fled (1) from a dead underling who had lived in fear of his master’s displeasure for most of his mortal life. As a precedent, this was a rather frightening view of things to come.

His hand tightened around the door handle. He could throw open the door and give Sendak, ghost or no ghost, a piece of his mind. A smile split his face as he imagined his former underling cowering in a fit of terror, his chains shaking as he quivered…

Zarkon snatched his hand back from the handle. It wasn’t really necessary to look into the sitting room. It left him wide open for an attack. Battle tactics. It was all about good battle tactics. That was it. He made ghosts- he was certainly NOT afraid of them.

That decided, Zarkon pushed all memories of his former battle commander from his mind and headed for bed. Tomorrow was a big day, perhaps the biggest of his life, and he should try to get at least a bit of rest. Crawling under the heavy fur covers, he clapped twice to dim the lights. He readjusted his brand new Sleep Number™ bed to a comfortable level and fell immediately into a restless doze, all thoughts of further ghostly visitations safely forgotten.

***

Later that night, exactly as the tiny neon digits of Zarkon’s trusty G-phone (2) flicked to twelve, a sparkling green light flicked into the bedchamber through the crack under the sitting room door. The light flitted from place to place around the room for a minute or two before settling directly on Zarkon’s chest. Zarkon shivered in his sleep and moved to pull the blankets more tightly around him. The green light twinkled. Two tiny hands appeared and clapped once, loudly. Zarkon shot awake as light flooded the room.

A lifetime of finely honed survival instincts enabled Zarkon to wake immediately with none of the sleep-tousled confusion of a mere human. That is, of course, assuming that it’s possible for a mostly hairless and unbelievably ancient Galra to be sleep-tousled- an idea about which I have doubts, but that’s a discussion best saved for another day- particularly one who was still feeling warm and rather cozy under furs of questionable origin. Regardless, Zarkon, survival or species-specific instincts aside, was most definitely not prepared for the sight that greeted him.

The first thing he noticed was the huge brown eyes, magnified all out of proportion by a pair of thick glasses. The mouth under the eyes was grinning mischievously and a hand was waving merrily. Zarkon forced his eyes closed and slowly reopened them. It didn’t work. The madly grinning little human, dressed in a shade of green made painfully bright by the sparkling lights and- of all things- shorts in the middle of winter, was still sitting cross-legged directly on the middle of his chest.

Zarkon launched himself out of bed with a roar of outrage, one hand already groping blindly for a weapon. Any weapon. There was nothing within reach. Glancing wildly around, Zarkon quickly amended that statement. There was nothing, period. He was standing dead center in a field of unbroken whiteness shaded with a touch of sourceless misty green light, alone except for the human intruder.

Eyes narrowing, Zarkon decided to ignore the disappearance of his bedroom in favor of studying his companion. All of this was the human’s fault. That much was certain. How dare this little person appear in the middle of the night and steal his entire ship out from under him? (3)

The little human seemed to be studying Zarkon in return, their eyes reflecting a smug certainty that Zarkon was not at all sure he liked. There was something oddly familiar about this human. True, they all looked alike, with their pale skin and skinny weak limbs, but this one did remind him of someone. Suddenly the image clicked.

“You,” he hissed, pointing at the human in accusation, “you’re one of the paladins. The Green one, with all the computer hacking. Pidge, that’s it. You’re Pidge!”

The human shrugged noncommittally. “I think you have me confused with someone else. I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past. I thought you were expecting me?” Her voice- he was pretty sure the human was a girl- lifted in a lilt at the end and she tilted her head to one side, eyeing Zarkon with the air of a scientist studying a particularly fascinating specimen.

Zarkon felt a welcome surge of anger rush through him. This…this…CHIBI honestly believed she could snatch away HIS ENTIRE FLEET from under his feet and, even worse, wake him up from a pleasant dream involving the crushing of Voltron and GET AWAY WITH IT? Oh, no. Not tonight. Clenching his hands into fists, Zarkon began to advance.

The Pidge-ghost continued to watch him with interest. “Aren’t you even the least bit curious about what I’m going to show you?”

Zarkon stopped in confusion. Lesser species rarely did anything other than run screaming in fear when he advanced on them. Apparently this one was somehow brain damaged, which actually explained quite a bit. Maybe if he humored it he could steal his planet back and still get a decent amount of sleep before tomorrow’s massacre. He took a deep calming breath and counted slowly to ten. “Okay, fine. What are you planning to show me?”

The ghost smiled in delight. “I’m so happy you asked!” Clapping her hands, she opened a portal directly in front of Zarkon. With a childish trusting smile, the ghost tightly grasped Zarkon’s hand and pulled him through.

The world seemed to momentarily spin away under Zarkon’s feet. Just as he thought he was finally getting his bearings, he fell headfirst into a dead pine tree with a loud painful-sounding smack. Much cursing and gasping for breath could be heard until he reemerged moments later, glaring in annoyance at the ghost, who had, to no one’s surprise, landed painlessly on her feet on solid ground.

Keeping a tight rein on his temper, partly just for the novelty of such an idea, Zarkon slowly stood and looked around. This place was familiar. He’d been here before, a very long time ago…

Sounds began to filter out of the long stone structure on the far side of the pine tree. Anger temporarily forgotten, Zarkon ran to the one window and peered breathlessly inside. Those voices, he knew those voices, but it couldn’t be! Could it?

Inside the house he could just barely make out a small purple-skinned and mostly naked child watching a tall frightening figure of a man strap on heavy battle armor.

“Father,” Zarkon whispered in awe, smashing his face against the glass.

“Where are you going, daddy?” the child asked, staring up at his father with an expression of absolute reverence.

The man grunted and tightened a strap, then absently reached down and patted the boy on the head. “Tonight is a very special night, Zarkon,” the man told his son. “It’s the night called Christmas. Don’t ever forget the effect silly superstitions can have on one’s defenses.”

The boy bit his lip, obviously lost in thought. “Does that mean a lot of our foes will die tonight?”

The man laughed coldly. “I certainly hope so.”

The grown man eavesdropping at the window echoed the boy’s bloodthirsty smile. “Good.” 

Zarkon’s father strode out of sight. The child Zarkon picked up a dagger his father had left behind and immediately commenced to hacking a teddy bear someone had picked up for him- for some absolutely incomprehensible reason- to bits.

Zarkon sighed happily as teddy bear stuffing began to fly throughout the room, oblivious to the ghost’s horror. “I remember that night well. Thank you for bringing me here, ghost. It’s such a happy memory.”

“But…but…” the Pidge-ghost nearly went even further SD, if that’s possibly, with distress. “But people died that night!”

“Yes, they did. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

The ghost stared for another minute. “Um, yeah. Wonderful. We have to be going now.” She gestured with one tiny hand and another portal opened in front of them. She began muttering under her breath in a distressed, mock-whispered voice. “This isn’t right. There has to be something in that thick skull of his…”

Zarkon nodded, smiling happily to himself, and stepped through. 

The landing wasn’t nearly so bad the second time, the poor Pidge-ghost being much too horrified to effect a proper scare in her subject. They landed in a room filled with weapons of destruction and laughter, an odd combination if ever there was one. It was a Christmas party, obviously in full swing. The ghost nodded in approval. 

“See? There was a time when you believed in the celebration of Christmas. Look back and remember.”

Zarkon glanced around in confusion. “I don’t remember… Oh, wait! I do! The night after my first successful raid. This was the beginning of the Galra Empire!” Smiling happily to himself, Zarkon began to wander around the room. 

The ghost took a closer look and noticed for the first time that the partygoers were drinking wine from cups that looked frighteningly like hollowed out skulls. A large sweatdrop formed on her forehead and she fell over in a dead faint, which is not a bad trick for a ghost.

Zarkon didn’t notice. He was too caught up in the party around him. “Look! There’s Drasno, that old pirate from the Rogue galaxy, and the Warriors of Pain. I haven’t seen them in ages!” He leaned back against a wall as an impromptu fight to the death over a recently appropriated female slave broke out in front of him. 

“You’re right, ghost! I did forget how much fun Christmas can be! After our attack tomorrow, I’ll order the biggest party anyone’s seen in years!”

The ghost appeared at his side, looking adorably annoyed. “Yeah, whatever. Look, we still have one more stop before I can get out of here, so let’s go.” 

“No, I want to stay. See Marock over there? He’s going to go wine-mad and take out half the guests in another half-hour or so. And look: Honerva!” He whistled under his breath as an Altean woman stepped through the doors clad in a skin-tight leather dress.

The ghost shuddered slightly. “I said we’re leaving! Right now!” She waved her hands and a black hole opened under Zarkon’s feet. With a yelp of surprise, the Galran Emperor disappeared. 

Zarkon hit a cold stone floor and bounced. Several times. Hard. It was altogether an experience that he didn’t particularly care for. “That’s it,” he mumbled under his breath, “that damn chibi ghost is going down!” He lunged to his feet and glared around the room.

“Daddy?” 

The soft voice took him entirely by surprise. Whirling, Zarkon found himself confronted with his infant son, Lotor. Zarkon smiled secretly as he watched his son totter towards the door. He’d forgotten just how cute Lotor had been as a baby.

“Daddy?” the child asked again, holding out his arms hopefully.

“No, son, daddy’s busy.” His son’s nurse scooped Lotor up in her arms as he began to cry. He remembered that nurse- she’s done her best to make a proper Galra out of the boy. It wasn’t her fault she’d failed completely- even he was willing to allow that the starting material had a definite Altean-based defect.

“But it’s Christmas!”

“Sh, someone will hear you. What did I tell you?”

“Christmas is a secret. But I don’t understand!”

Zarkon frowned for a moment. That didn’t sound right, but he felt it might answer some lingering questions. He made himself a mental note to send Lotor’s former nanny to have a talk (4) of sorts with his son’s former nurse after the completion of tomorrow’s glorious plans.

Baby Lotor sank down to the floor with a pout. “But I don’t want it to be a secret! I want presents and songs and cookies! Why isn’t daddy here?” The yellow eyes suddenly went wide with horror. “What if he scares away Santa?”

The nurse sighed and handed him a cookie that looked suspiciously like a madly grinning snowman. “He’s busy, child. Your father has important work to do. It’s best not to bother him with these things. Would you want him distracted in the midst of a battle?”

“But…” Lotor sighed and contemplated his cookie. “No, I guess not. Are the battles that important?”

The nurse patted him absently on the head and turned back to the table. “Of course child. Anything for the glory of the Empire. Vrepit sa!”

“Vrepit sa!” Zarkon whispered in unison with his still sulking son (5) and sank down to the floor against the wall, his eyes misting over. 

The ghost leaned down beside him, the smug smile back. “Wishing you’d spent that Christmas with him, are you?”

“No,” Zarkon sniffed, “I’m remembering the battles I was fighting that day. They were so glorious!”

The ghost threw up her hands in defeat. Leaning over, she snatched the action figures still hidden inside Zarkon’s robes and stalked over to the far side of the chamber muttering under her breath about the Ghost of Christmas Present already being way too unbearably impossible about things. Zarkon ignored her. It was such a sweet day; he could still taste the thrill of victory.

“Hey ghost? Take me to the battle itself. That’s what I’d like to see.” 

The ghost ignored him.

Zarkon glanced over and winced as the Allura action figure delivered a particularly nasty judo chop to the Lotor action figure. At least some things in the universe were constant.

The ghost looked up. “It’s that kind of thinking that got you here in the first place!” With an angry glare she threw the action figures directly at Zarkon’s head. The emperor ducked, only to have a new tear in the space-time continuum (6) open under his feet. 

Zarkon was so angry that it actually took several minutes for the realization that he was lying in his bed in the darkness of his bedchamber to hit home. Jumping up, he stared wide-eyed around the empty room. Everything seemed to still be in place, exactly as he’d left it. Maybe it was just a dream. Lying back down, he pulled the covers up and patted the hidden pocket with the action figures. His eyes popped back open. They were gone! Lotor was going to throw such a fit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Turned tail and run is also a fitting description.  
2\. Carry the pride of the Galra Empire with you wherever you go!  
3\. Rationality under pressure had never been one of Zarkon’s strong points.  
4\. In a manner of speaking. Possibly in the arena. He’d make sure Lotor had a front row seat.  
5\. Although, in the manner of young children everywhere, Lotor was rapidly giving up on sulking in favor of a sugar rush.  
6\. Or is it the fabric of reality? Whatever. That’s also open for discussion.


	4. Christmas Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zarkon is visited by the second ghost. He may start to learn a lesson, although whether it's the lesson he's meant to learn is debatable.

A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table told him that it was only a quarter till 2. That was absolutely lovely. It meant he had the whole night yet to go. Sendark could have at least had the decency to tell him how much fun all these memories were going to be instead of spending his time rattling chains and making empty threats. Then again, that was Sendak through and through. Death just doesn't become some people.

Pushing aside the thought of Lotor's action figure-less-induced temper tantrums come tomorrow with the silent promise that soon he'd have the real Princess at his disposal and wouldn't have to resort to make-believe, Zarkon pulled the covers back up to his chin and promptly fell asleep.

At a couple of minutes past two (1), Zarkon woke up with a start. He smelled smoke. There was heat. Heat and smoke meant fire.

Fire! Zarkon dove out of bed and proceeded to try to beat out the flames that were currently trying to eat their way through the unornamented metal of his bedroom floor (2). 

"Do you mind?" The voice sounded directly below Zarkon's ear.

The voice didn't quite filter through his consciousness until a burning hot hand closed over his wrist, effectively halting the fire fighting progress. 

Zarkon flung off the restraining hand and jumped around to face yet another human. This one was taller than the first and dressed more normally, without the completely out of season shorts. There was something about him that looked familiar as well.

"I know you." Zarkon stared for another second as the human knelt by his badly damaged fire and coaxed it lovingly back to life. "Lance! You're another one of the paladins! This is all some kind of trick, isn't it?"

The ghost glared up at him, still patting his fire as if it were some kind of odd puppy. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Present."

Zarkon waved a hand absently. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you say. Now, unless you're going to show me some more of those really fun memories, why don't you go away and let me get some sleep?"

The ghost stood up with a sigh. "I said Present, not Past. No memories involved, just the present. Think you can stay with me?"

Zarkon blinked. "Presents?"

The ghost growled, grabbed Zarkon's wrist, and shoved him into the fire.

This journey was nothing like the first. Instead of a dizzying drop the universe was filled with a burning heat that seemed to sear all the way to his soul, burning his very being to a crisp (3). 

The fire suddenly died away with a last sizzling wave of heat and the cold night air rushed in to replace it. Zarkon shivered and pulled his robes tighter to trap the lingering warmth. "I thought Sendak said death was cold."

The ghost appeared at his side and snorted. "Yeah, well, Sendak's an idiot. Always waving those chains and moaning. You can have him back if you like. Your witch knows the proper resurrection spells."

Zarkon shuddered. "No, that's quite all right. You can keep him." He glanced around, noting they were standing in the middle of what appeared to be a multitude of merrily burning bonfires on the surface of their current strategically placed planetoid. Slaves dressed in skimpy rags were darting in close to the fire and heaving the last traces of the fleet’s former Yuletide cheer into the hungry flames. Guards were standing close to the dancing flames, staring morosely at the hurrying slaves. The atmosphere had all the romantic appeal of a fundamentalist book burning.

Zarkon was absolutely delighted. "It's almost gone! You brought me out here so I could see the death of Christmas! Oh, thank you, Ghost!"

The ghost gave him a startled look. "No, not exactly-"

Zarkon continued blithely on, gesturing grandly to take in the nightmarish landscape. "It just brings the heart joy and makes me want to sing!" With an insane sounding giggle, he began in a loud voice, spinning madly through the flickering heat put off by the bonfires. "Deck the halls with gasoline…"

The ghost stared at him speechlessly for a minute, then reached into his pocket and removed a flask. "I _told_ the Ghost of Christmas Past that she wasn't cut out for this line of work. _Put the joys of Christmas Past into his heart_, I said. This is her idea of joy?" He took a quick drink and dropped the flask back into his pocket.

Zarkon stopped singing and stared around with a reverential air just as the last slave threw the final decoration on the flames. His cheer was cut short as a single voice raised in soft mourning. Other voices joined in until finally the strains of Silent Night, Galra Style (4) filled the night air.

Zarkon shrieked his rage to the uncaring night sky and ran pell-mell around the fires, trying desperately to halt the sweetness of the voices. The ghost amused himself by watching for a moment before glancing at his phone and deciding they really needed to go. At least something had finally gotten through Zarkon's thick skull.

He caught Zarkon's arm on his next pass, trying his best to look apologetic. "Look, I know you're in the middle of an apoplectic fit and everything, but do you think we could move on?" 

Zarkon brushed him off and regained control. "Yes, of course. Take me somewhere more interesting. Now."

The ghost raised an eyebrow at him, but decided to let the tone of command slide this time. The emperor was finally in shock, after all. With a jeering mental grin at the Ghost of Christmas Past he raised one hand and gestured towards the fire. Zarkon glanced up and ran headfirst in to the flames.

This time the burn didn't stop as he emerged from the fiery gateway onto the cold metal ramp of a spaceport. Luckily, having been a good kindergarten student, Zarkon stopped, dropped, and rolled, effectively putting out the flames. He glared up at the smirking ghost. "That _hurt_!"

The ghost's smirk deepened. "Of course it did. You just ran headfirst into a fire."

"But you said-"

"So I did. Anyway, we're here. No harm done." The ghost started to wander down the runway.

Zarkon climbed slowly to his feet, half-heartedly inspecting his still smoking robes. "Just wait," he muttered under his breath, "I'll have all those guards put to death first thing in the morning and then," his smile became decidedly bloodthirsty, "then, my little ghost, you are going to die." He even indulged in a moment of homicidal laughter before glancing around at his surroundings.

There was no sign of the ghost. People scurried everywhere around him, loading missiles from sleighs led by what appeared to be flying reindeer onto ships in every loading dock. Gas clouds in rainbow shades swirled overhead, giving a constant impression of psychedelic blacklit darkness. "Hey, I know this place. It's planet Kringle. I conquered it last year." Another glance brought a smile of triumphant to his face. "At least _someone's_ following my orders."

"Are they?"

Zarkon spun around and looked down at the ghost. "Of course they are. They're readying for tomorrow's attack on y- someone," he finished, the portion of his brain that handled not giving battle information to an enemy kicking in at the last possible minute.

"Hmm." The ghost shrugged noncommittally. "Maybe. Do you see your guards?"

"What? Of course. They're…" Zarkon's voice trailed off and he searched the spaceport. There had been guards, of course, and his own commanders. Surely they were overseeing things. He just couldn't find them. A moment of inspiration struck. "They're in the control towers, I'm sure!"

The ghost shrugged again. "If you say so." 

Zarkon stared at him with an expression of horror, then turned and shot across the runway and up the stairs of the control tower. What he found there made his blood run cold. 

The entire control room was decorated with criss-crossing greenery, red ribbons, and happily burning candles. A mass of Galra-issued insignia badges burned in a merry little pile by the door. The commanders were grouped in the window, laughing as they watched their charges load weapons onto the massed fleet. 

"They won't even see it coming!"

"Attack the Voltron Force. Right. The entire armada's going to be busy elsewhere, leaving the main fleet unprotected. We'll show the Emperor how we feel about canceling Christmas!"

"Throwing his own tactics right back in his face. This is going to be priceless!"

"Long live the Revolution!"

The first three commanders turned and gave the fourth an odd look. He looked slightly abashed. "Sorry, I got carried away." The others continued to stare, and he turned bright red. "Um… Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer?" 

"Damn straight!" The other three cried, whipping out new bottles of heavily spiked eggnog.

"Had a very shiny nose!" One of them exclaimed, tears leaking from his eyes as he passed a bottle to the fourth commander.

Zarkon stared around in shock. "You have got to be kidding."

"Oh no," the ghost said softly, leaning around Zarkon's arm to peer into the control room. "You're underestimating the power of Christmas. One spur of the moment angry decision is about to cost you your whole empire."

"No it's not. Take me back immediately."

"I don't think so." The ghost stared up at him with a scrutinizing expression. "You need to see what you're about to destroy."

Zarkon balled his massive hands into fists and glared down. "I know what I’m about to destroy, and you and your measly alliance are still going to die. All these rebellions will just have to be quenched first. Now take me back!"

The ghost sighed and shook his head mournfully. "Look, I realize you're not going to accept what I'm about to show you, but I have to. It's in my contract. Just humor me for a few more minutes."

"I said NOW!"

The ghost rolled his eyes. "Sure." Whipping a handy anime-brand mallet out of hammerspace, he took a swing and clocked the unsuspecting emperor upside his head. The world faded into darkness.

***

Light and warmth rolled back in on the heels of merry sounding laughter. The noise echoed through Zarkon's aching head. He raised one hand and tried, unsuccessfully, to brush away the pain. "The ghost hit me with a hammer. He's going to _pay_!" He was lying on his back and contemplating his very special plans for the Red Paladin of Voltron when voices began to filter in through his consciousness.

"No, the angel goes on top of the tree!"

"Why, exactly?"

"Because that's the way it's done!"

Forcing his eyes to focus, Zarkon surveyed his surroundings with a groan. He was in a brightly lit- in that horrible shade of unmistakable blue- room on the Castle of Lions, in the den of his enemy. The room was currently occupied by a laughing mass of people attempting to decorate a huge Christmas tree that brushed the high ceiling. They were all there, he noticed, representatives of the entire alliance. A roomful of people with their guard down. Hitting them tomorrow would be to the best tactical advantage. Ignoring the laughter and general mayhem he began to plot battle plans that involved the destruction of his enemies and the suppression of the apparent riot on planet Kringle.

"Look, can't you even pretend like you're learning something?"

"No, I'm busy." Zarkon glanced over at the ghost, who was leaning against a wall and clutching his flask again, and then turned his attention back around the room. He squinted at the figures around the tree. "How exactly are you in two places at the same time anyway?"

The ghost took a defeated swig and shook his head. "I'm not. I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present. That's Lance of the Voltron Force that you're going to vanquish tomorrow. See the difference?"

"Well…" Zarkon stared between the two of them again. "No."

"Whatever. It's your subconscious, buddy, not mine." The ghost took another drink and went back to watching just as Pidge, standing on Hunk's shoulders, almost knocked the entire tree over. The room rang with laughter again.

Shiro smiled brightly from his spot in front of the fire and waved a thin crutch in the air half-heartedly. "God bless us every one!"

Lance, trying desperately to hold the tree up despite his teammates’ best efforts, blinked down at him. "Excuse me?"

Shiro shrugged.

“Narrative necessity.”

Keith leaned back and stared. “But, wait. Aren’t you a little old to be Tiny Tim? Why not Pidge?”

“Hey!” 

He ducked back around the tree as the smallest member of the Voltron Force lobbed a shiny ball at him from her perch on Hunk’s shoulders.

Shiro just looked sheepish. “Someone had to do it, and it’s not like I was doing anything else in this story.”

Keith shook his head from his hiding place. “Yeah, but-“

Lance nudged him in the side, still watching Shiro with a worried expression. “Let it go, babe. At least he can’t just disappear if he’s stuck with that little cane thing.”

“But…”

“Just accept it.” Allura shoved him back towards the tree, a string of garland containing what could only be juniberry flowers dangling from her fingers as she started to hum a cheerful song.

Zarkon shuddered and turned back to the ghost. "How much more of this do I have to see?"

The ghost shrugged noncommittally. 

Zarkon gestured at the flask in his hands. "Can I at least have a drink?"

The ghost grinned and tossed the flask over. "Knock yourself out."

Zarkon raised the flask to his lips and swallowed. The liquor flowed down his throat in a trail of liquid fire, burning away consciousness and leaving nothing behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Ghost of Christmas Present was always late; he had lingering rebellion issues with the Voice of Authority.  
2\. All right, so metal doesn't usually burn. I thought I already told you that Zarkon wasn't rational under pressure. Really, if you keep interrupting this way, we'll never finish the story. Anyway back to Zarkon and the burning ship.  
3\. Or, I suppose this being Christmas and all, a chestnut.  
4\. Don't ask; you really don't want to know.
> 
> I'll give you 3 guesses who the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come may be.


	5. Christmas Yet To Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zarkon faces the final ghost. He doesn't enjoy the experience.

The fire faded to a lingering burn in the pit of his stomach. Zarkon started awake once more to find himself in the depths of his own bed in his own room. He brushed a hand across the new lump from the Ghost of Christmas Present's mallet as memories from the latest visitation came flooding back in. With a muffled curse he leapt back out of bed, the sudden need for action outweighing even the vengeful fantasies of various ghosts beaten to an ectoplasmy pulp. 

Planet Kringle was trying to rebel. Thought they'd catch him napping, did they? They were in for a big surprise tomorrow. He didn't really need the whole fleet to annihilate one measly planet and a rag tag group of rebels and their accomplices. The strength in numbers was more to impress than anything else. He could crush those damn children with half the numbers and still leave plenty of ready capable strength here, even after having the whole lot of guards in charge of decoration burning summarily executed.

There was no more time for sleep. The time for action was _now_. His hand touched the door, and then something very odd happened. The doorknob jumped and twisted underneath his fingers. Just as the time reached 4:00 A.M., the door began to slowly open of its own accord, creaking in a way that was very unusual for a highly futuristic metal polymer.

Zarkon snatched his hand back and grabbed for his sword. His hand came up empty. He was just about to begin casting around the room for anything that could double as a weapon when the door ceased moving and something of more immediate importance grabbed his attention. His sitting room was gone. There was absolutely nothing on the other side of the door except for blackness impenetrable by even the faint purple light of his bedroom.

A sense of cold foreboding shivered down Zarkon's spine, but the emperor shook it off and took a careful step back. No matter what was on the other side of that door, he would face it down. Someone in Zarkon's position learned early on that you either faced down fears immediately or they popped up from under your bed in the middle of the night with a knife ready for your throat. There wasn't anything that could be that bad. Except, just possibly, for Haggar in a bikini still carrying mistletoe. Barring that…

The thought faded as something stepped out of the darkness. A glowing figure stopped in the doorway, face creased in a very familiar disapproving frown. Zarkon's mind actually started gibbering, but only for a second.

There was one person who was much worse than Haggar in a bikini. One person who had almost been his undoing. 

"You're dead," he whispered in soft disbelief.

The glowing form of Alfor nodded solemnly and motioned Zarkon through the door with one hand. 

"You're the third ghost, aren't you?"

The ghost nodded again. His hand was still stretched back into the impenetrable blackness in an attitude of silent purpose.

Zarkon stared at him a moment longer and felt his heartbeat slow back to normal. _Face your fears_. Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the open doorway.

The blackness of the room dissolved into a wash of blinding sterile light. After a moment the heat of the sun crashed over him in insufferable waves, cooking the very air in his lungs. The landscape he found himself standing on was arid and lifeless. The ground was pockmarked with huge ripped craters and the twisted remains of cooked metal. The sky was barely visible through an odd haze that seemed to amplify the heat of the baking sun. The whole thing looked like an environmental poster depiction of nuclear winter.

Actually, it was really quite pretty. Zarkon was sure he'd never seen the place before, though. He turned back to the ghost with a confused expression. "Where are we? Why are we here?"

The ghost raised one hand and pointed across towards the lip of a particularly large crater. Zarkon followed the motion, shrugged to himself, and set off across the landscape, conscious of the burning warmth seeping through the soles of his feet.

By the time he reached the indicated area the heat was already beginning to make him sluggish. Suppressed biological urges were pointing out that he should be sunning himself on a large rock somewhere, not traipsing around the baked rock like a complete and total idiot. One glance back at Alfor's still form stopped the wayward evolutionary notions, however. There was something obscurely threatening in the silent menace of his oldest friend and foe. 

He climbed up on the rim of the crater and looked around. It was absolutely enormous. Whatever it was, it must have been ground zero. Not so much as a speck of dust existed inside. Except… His eyes caught something and he moved around to pick the object up. It was a single thin crutch, as impossible as that may sound. The ghost did have a point to make, after all, and rules of logic don't apply to the dead.

Zarkon held the crutch up to his face in disbelief. A memory slowly filtered back into his head. 

_"God bless us, every one!"_

"Yule," Zarkon whispered. He straightened back up with the crutch still clutched tightly in one fist. He turned back to the ghost in a burst of excitement. "Yule! We're on Yule! The attack was successful!"

Jumping up and down with childlike glee he ran to the ghost. "Wonderful! What do you have to show me next?"

The ghost took his arm and swirled away the view of the ruined planet into another wave of blackness.

When the blackness rolled away this time it was to a similar view. The world beneath his feet was now cold and lifeless instead of hot and baking, and thick dark clouds swirled overhead, effectively extinguishing the life-giving light of the sun.

This place was familiar. It was Doom, current station of his fleet.

Zarkon spun around quickly, wondering why he was here. Maybe the ghost was going to show him the execution of his insubordinate guards? But no, where was the fleet? Where was _he_?

He looked at the ghost. The ghost again raised one hand and pointed silently forward.

Zarkon started out at a slow walk until he reached a rock ridge. Just ahead in the distance he could see something that his mind was refusing to register as the shape of his flagship. There was something very wrong here. He turned back in confusion, but the landscape was empty.

A hand on his shoulder nearly made him jump out of his skin. He looked up into Alfor's sorrowful face. "The fleet…it was…it was defeated?"

Alfor nodded, indicating the massed wreckage with a finger. 

"But…but the Voltron Force was defeated."

The ghost nodded.

"Then where was I?"

The ghost's hand pulled away and pointed down, into a yawning pit opening beneath his vantage point. Zarkon followed its motion helplessly. Down beneath their feet rested a hunched figure chained to a post. There wasn't enough of the figure's flesh remaining for it to be recognizable, but the robes gave the identity away. No one would dare wear the Emperor’s robes. No one.

Zarkon shrieked and stumbled backward, his skin crawling as his imagination conjured the ripping tearing bites of a thousand hungry vultures and robeasts. How could this happen? How could he fail? Kringle! It had to be Kringle!

His back hit the coldness of the ghost's chest and his vision once more dissolved into blackness.

Zarkon was afraid to look when the world sprang into color once again. "So I'm dead," he whispered to himself. "I'm dead. But the Empire…" He spun around to face the ghost with sudden desperation. "Voltron was defeated! The Empire lives on in my son and followers!"

Alfor simply raised a finger and pointed.

Zarkon spun around to find that things were only getting more unbelievable. Grassy hills spread out before him under a bright blue sky. Fluffy clouds dispersed in entertaining shapes drifted slowly overhead on a warm afternoon breeze. Birds were singing and yes, there were even fluffy pink bunnies. It was singularly disgusting.

Laughter once again reached his ears. Familiar laughter. It was…

It was his son dressed in a white suit swinging a laughing child through the air. Two more laughing children jumped up and down at his sides, eagerly waiting their turn. Resting on the grass with a newborn baby cradled in her arms was Allura, the Princess of Altea.

Zarkon stared in disbelief. "You're not serious."

A noise caught his ears then and he looked up at the sky just in time to see the cursed shapes of the five lions zoom overhead in practice maneuvers. 

Voltron was destroyed. 

Voltron _had_ to destroyed. He was dead. 

It wasn't enough!

Shrieking in rage, Zarkon flung himself forward at the smiling figure of his traitorous son just as the world dissolved into blackness one final time.


	6. Silent Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does Zarkon turn his life around, or is he still destined for chains? Did the ghosts have an impact?

Morning broke over the desolate surface of planet Doom as it did every day. The spaceport was quiet, the weapons long since charged and the warriors too slow to scramble for sanity ready for the grim very non-Christmas-like task facing them.

Imagine their surprise when a young red-headed boy came limping out with the aid of a tiny crutch onto the runway leading a bastion of slaves bearing turkeys and ducks and whatever else it is that Galra in a fleet on a mostly dead planetoid eat on Christmas day. Oh, and chocolate. Chocolate in every conceivable presentation. It was lovely.

Yes, children, it seems Zarkon had seen the light. There were no further attacks on Voltron. Peace and harmony suddenly ruled the universe. Lotor and Allura eventually were married, and the commander with no name found a bright shiny new Voltron toy under his Christmas tree. The rebellious planet Kringle remained intact, and Rudolph- _and_ his shiny nose- became the new symbols of the Empire. The guards on duty over the fires even kept their lives, and were given a raise for being true to their hearts.

It was a beautiful time to be alive.

Right.

Let's go over what really happened, shall we?

Zarkon woke the next morning bright and early to one whopper of a dilemma. The attack on Yule would be successful, but apparently he would also die. This was not what he was ready to file under "acceptable losses". In retrospect, he decided to cancel the attack and begin an immediate last-ditch program to save his son before his inevitable descent into the world of musical theater reached its zenith. All Lotor's action figures and other toys were confiscated and given to the nameless commander, who screamed and danced around in delight at his presents. 

Even the most liberal observer will have to agree that it was much too late to save that one.

Lotor spent weeks locked in his room with his favorite harem girls and boys having a good long sulk, but finally decided to go through with his father's reprogramming. After all, if he just gritted his teeth and got it over with maybe he'd even be able to make it to the "A Chorus Line" auditions on planet Maro by next summer.

The jury's still out on that one.

Planet Kringle, warned by a quick last minute message from an odd jolly old fellow in a red suit, backed out of the attack on Doom at the last minute. They're currently on probation in the Galra Empire and aren't allowed to leave the galaxy on weekends, even if there's a really happening party just a short warp hop away. But that's okay. They still have lots of eggnog, and contrary to popular belief, those flying reindeer even let them join in all the reindeer games.

Christmas was celebrated on Planet Yule as usual, with none of them the wiser about the turn in their luck. There was a bit of murmuring about odd dreams the night before, but since the murmurers tended to complain a heck of lot anyway they were more or less ignored. Shiro no longer had to pretend to use his crutch, and he even managed to hang around till Christmas dinner without dying or turning into an evil clone, which everyone considered a win. Coran got confused and started shouting "God bless them, every one!" at everyone, mistaking the phrase for a common Earth blessing, but a few hours “accidently” locked in a closet helped him see the error of his ways.

The fuzzy pink bunnies had a lovely Christmas on their beautiful pristine world left devoid of any human habititation by the halting of the Galra attack. This explains why the adjectives "beautiful" and "pristine" can actually apply.

And everyone lived. Maybe not happily, but at least that's something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming this afternoon- the epilogue.


	7. Epilogue: I've Got Friends in Low Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ghosts discuss their night's work. Over cocktails. Because why not?

Somewhere in the ethereal plain rested a bar. This probably isn't all that shocking. Everywhere you find sentient life- or even beings who were at least arguably once sentient- you'll find a bar, even if it's only a hollowed out area in the back of someone's grass hut. It's one of the immutable rules of life. Or death. Or… You get the point.

The bar didn't have a name. It didn't even have a strict location. Wherever a resident needed it to be, it simply was.

In the bar on this particular night were several ghosts, most of whom you would by now find very familiar. They were congratulating themselves on a job that was at least done, if not done exceptionally well. They were currently sprawled around a cloudy object that probably passed for a table, passing around bottles of Ambrosia.

The Ghost of Christmas Past, done with her very first assignment, was having a fantastic time. "That was so much fun! You really got him, Future! You should have seen the expression on his face!" The little ghost tipped off her chair and fell through the cloudy floor, shaking with peals of laughter.

Sendak dropped one of his chains and fished the giggling ghost back up without spilling a drop from the bottle in his free hand.

The Ghost of Christmas Future tilted his head to the side and pointed questioningly at the chains. 

The Ghost of Christmas Past, still snorting with uncontrollable laughter, tapped the eldest ghost on the shoulder and mouthed "Off Duty".

"Oh, right." The Ghost of Christmas Future smiled rather sheepishly. "Why exactly do you still carry those chains around anyway?"

Sendak shrugged and handed the bottle over Past's head- she'd obviously had enough- to Present. "I don't know. I guess because they get the point across more rapidly than daisies would."

The Ghost of Christmas Past fell off his chair again. The Ghost of Christmas Present handed the bottle to Future and dived through the floor after her.

Sendak leaned back in his chair and regarded Future solemnly. "So, what do you think?"

Future smiled an unreadable kind of smile. "Not too bad. We saved that poor planet, after all, and all those lives."

"Yeah," Present agreed, floating back through the floor and depositing Past on a barstool with a warning look, "but I thought we were supposed to convert him to the glory and goodness of Christmas."

Past snorted. "Are you kidding? Did you see that guy's memories? I'm amazed we managed to postpone the coming Apocalypse."

Present looked doubtful, but Future nodded. "She's right. Sometimes you just have to do the best you can with what you're given and hope for the best. Maybe time is all he needs to come around."

"And if not, maybe he'll screw up on someone else's shift!" Sendak started cackling to himself and trying to beat out a passable rendition of Jingle Bells using his chains.

Present finally smiled, reaching over to snatch the bottle from Future's hands. Taking a big swig, he glanced at Sendak. A fire suddenly appeared around the ghost's chair. Sendak leapt up, clutching hands to his suddenly white-hot chains.

"But death's _cold_," Present mimicked nastily.

Past started giggling again. "Oh, and giving a mortal ambrosia was a good idea?"

Future laughed. "That clapper bit was cute, though."

Past and Present both looked wounded. Past made a snatch for the bottle, missed, and stole Present's flask instead. "Like you should talk. All you have to do is sit there and point. Just your presence alone is enough to bring terror to the minds of mortals. We already have them warmed up for you!"

The argument lasted long into the ethereal night, punctuated by several hysterical toasts to Rudolph and the Revolution. A good time was had by all.

The End.


End file.
